by Lynne Cox
As we neared shore we turned to the right. The crew began pointing and yelling.
I heard Dan shout, “Lynne, ice!”
I just missed a block the size of a refrigerator. It was hard to judge the speed of the icebergs. They moved at different rates, like meteors, and I was trying to cut across their path.
The crew shouted again, pointing at small pieces of brash ice. This ice was transparent and hard to spot. I spun to my left.
“Watch out!” Barry pointed to my right.
I didn’t react quickly enough; I swam headfirst into a piece the size of a big dog, and hit it hard. The impact brought hot tears to my eyes. I wondered if I would have a bump. We were moving into a field mined with ice. From the boat on my right, I heard Susan yelling, “Lynne, watch out!” as Laura pointed to my right. I swerved to the left. Shawn was shouting, repeating, “Ice, ice!” to make sure I heard him, and Casey was directing me around a large chunk. I was breathing only on my right side now, focused on that side because the ice chunks and bergs seemed to be flowing in from that direction. I didn’t realize the ice was all around us until I heard Barry on my left side. He was leaning way over the side of the Zodiac, waving me away from the boat. I was swimming within inches of a large piece, and its edges were as sharp as broken glass. I could tell that if I got any closer to it, Dan was prepared to jump in and push it away. Clear ice the size of a hall mirror was barely visible on the surface, but it expanded below the surface, like an eight-foot-wide upside-down snow cone. I looked at the base of the iceberg, then saw the shore. I couldn’t help myself; I started sprinting faster. I should have been more careful, but I just wanted to get clear of the ice field and finish. I wasn’t paying attention to the crew, and I slammed headfirst into a round chunk of ice the size of a soccer ball. My forehead registered a sort of blinding pain. I wanted to stop and rub it, but I decided instead to swim the last few yards with my head up; that way I would take the hits to my chest instead of my head.
When the passengers from the Orlova, who had no idea what we were doing and had been exploring King George Island, saw the Zodiacs landing, they ran down to the water’s edge to greet us. Our youngest crew members were standing onshore, cheering and clapping. I saw their smiling faces beneath their hoods, and I smiled too. I tried to stand up gradually. It was difficult moving from a horizontal position to a vertical one; it put a lot of stress on my heart, and I felt unsteady. The rocks, small as pancakes, flat, and blunt-edged like shale, were shades of terra-cotta, gold, white, and brown. As I hobbled forward, the rocks stuck into my feet. My feet were numb and stiff, but walking on those rocks hurt a lot, and I wondered if my body was magnifying the pain. I saw Susan Adie, the expedition leader, who had helped us plan out the swim. She was cheering and offering me her hand. I waved her off, wanting to completely clear the water first on my own, then reached for her hand. Someone else grabbed me under my left arm, supporting me. All I could see of his face beneath a furry hat were two very bright blue eyes. I leaned heavily on him, taking the pressure off my feet, so the rocks wouldn’t hurt so much.
“Who are you?” I asked.
He laughed and said something, and I recognized him as Bob Griffith. He had thought I was joking, but I really hadn’t recognized him; my brain was not working normally. It was operating at a mechanical level again. My brain was trying to filter out the multitude of sensations my body was experiencing; my brain was focusing on survival. I was colder now than I had been during the swim, and all I could think about was getting warm.
The three doctors surrounded me. Susan Sklar hugged me, helping me stand up. Laura King wrapped a blanket over my shoulders, and Gabriella Miotto supported me on the right side. I hunched over and closed my eyes, as if that would help shut out the cold. The wind was gusting through the glacier peaks at perhaps thirty knots. There were hands on my body, drying me off, and I smiled. I felt so pampered, so happy, so tired.
“Do you want me to take your swimming cap off?” someone asked.
I shook my head. “I want to keep it on to keep my head warm,” I said, not wanting to lose any more heat. Someone else was helping me pull on some boots. Yet another person was holding me under the arm and asking if we could start walking again. I looked at my legs. They didn’t seem to be part of my body. They were stiff, red, and wobbly. There were three bleeding scratches on my left thigh; I must have gotten them from the ice crystals in the water column when I’d jumped in. I was glad I hadn’t dived in headfirst.
The doctors and crew and I staggered across a one-hundred-yard-wide beach and forded a fast-moving stream to one of the huts of the Polish research base, where we climbed three stairs and walked inside. Three tall Polish men, who were working in the lab, examining plankton, were astonished to see me. They immediately offered me a place on the floor to lie down as well as a cup of hot tea. I was shaking too hard to drink or hold on to anything. Anthony Block, the ship’s doctor, appeared and checked to see if I was okay.
I lay down on a wool blanket on the floor while Dr. King covered me with another blanket. My whole body was shaking. It was working as hard as it had worked during the swim. I was breathing very shallowly and rapidly. And as the circulation opened to my skin and extremities, I could feel waves of cold pouring into my core. My body was shaking so hard, my head was bouncing up and down. Before I’d started the swim, my temperature was 99.5 degrees; immediately after I’d finished, it was 97.7 degrees.
For the next twenty minutes I curled into a ball on my side on a blanket on the floor and shivered. When Gabriella and Laura offered to lie down on either side of me, sandwiching me between them and giving me their body heat and comfort, I gladly accepted, but when Laura offered to come underneath the blanket, I declined. Both Laura and Gabriella were thin, and I was concerned that my cold skin and wet swimsuit would give them a chill. I was too cold to take my suit off. My fingers weren’t functioning properly and I was shaking too hard.
It was exhausting and yet amazing to feel what was happening. Dr. Laura took my core temperature every twenty minutes and recorded it. My body was systematically regulating its circulation, opening up blood flow from one area, shivering to create heat to compensate for the cold blood that rushed in from there, allowing for a few minutes of rest, and then beginning the sequence again with a new area. This was something I’d never experienced before, but I’d never been this cold. Still, in only forty-five minutes my temperature was back to normal.
Once I stopped shivering and was able to hold a mug, the three doctors and I drank a toast of tea to our new Polish friends. We took some photos together, got a quick tour of their lab, and said goodbye. The wind outside the hut had increased to forty knots. A storm was moving in rapidly from the south, and we needed to get out to the ship before it broke or we would have to spend the night in the hut and delay the ship’s sailing.
Barry was waiting outside the hut for us. He gave me a huge hug. He was as thrilled as I was. He and Susan held me under each arm and helped me walk across the beach. I was deeply fatigued. My legs kept slipping out from underneath me, and if Barry and Susan hadn’t been holding on to me, I would have taken two or three nosedives.
The Zodiac operator who had been driving the Zodiac on my left side during the swim was waiting for us. Amazed, he said to me, “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it.” He shook my hand and directed me to sit on a pontoon beside him. On the ride back to the Orlova, the waves were steep, three to four feet, and it felt as if we were flying down a roller coaster. Each time a wave slammed into the bow, icy water flew into the boat. Brad Stahl, the Zodiac driver, had positioned me behind Barry so I could duck behind him and stay dry; that way I wouldn’t get chilled or experience an afterdrop.
When we reached the ship, the passengers on the Orlova cheered as we climbed back up the ramp. I had swum for twenty-two minutes and fourteen seconds, covering .92 mile in thirty-three-degree water. No one had known that I would be able to swim that far on my
first attempt, not even I, and I felt like we had achieved a lot. Now I believed that we could move forward with the larger goal, the one I had been contemplating for the past two years. I believed I was ready to attempt the first Antarctic mile, the first swim to the continent of Antarctica. And I believed the crew now had the confidence in me to help me achieve it. In spite of my fatigue, I felt a surge of energy.
As I walked back to my cabin, passengers and crew members hugged and congratulated me. I took a very long, hot shower and rested on my bunk. I needed to recover as quickly as I could from the swim, replenish my fluids, and flush out the lactic acid. I drank two twelve-ounce servings of a solution of maple syrup and water. My thinking was that when a maple tree goes from dormancy to budding, it uses sap as energy, so why shouldn’t I use it for rewarming and for energy?
That night when I ate dinner with my crew, everyone’s spirits were high. I had swum for twenty-two minutes and I had surprised them as well as myself. It was a much longer test swim than any of us had expected. We celebrated with toasts and tales and a lot of laughter. This gave me time to pause and relax. But that night, as I lay in bed, in anticipation of the big swim, I reflected on the day and the things I wanted to do better. I had never shivered so hard in my life, and it had been extremely uncomfortable. I wasn’t looking forward to doing that again. And since the water closer to the mainland would be colder, I suspected the shivering would be more violent or more prolonged or both. I decided that if I got the chance to swim a mile, I would need to crank my arm speed up and move faster to generate more heat; that way I wouldn’t be as cold at the end of the swim and wouldn’t have to shiver so hard. The bottoms of my feet were black and blue and tender from being bruised on the rocks. It still hurt to walk. I would ask Dan to jump into the water with me in his dry suit when I was making the transition from swimming to standing and have him help me climb out of the water. And I’d ask him to let me lean heavily on his shoulder to take the weight off my feet. Before the test swim, I had thought of doing a second training swim the following day at Deception Island, but now I decided against it. My main goal was to swim to Antarctica, and I was beat. I needed more time to recover.
The following day the weather conditions were rough. Sixty-knot winds churned the sea into white waves and flying spray, and when we reached Deception Island waterspouts whirled around the ship like small watery tornadoes, rising up to twenty feet above the water’s surface. All day long we traveled south, toward the Antarctic Peninsula, and I wondered if I would get another chance to swim. I felt a tension growing within me. I had to keep talking to myself, reminding myself that the weather changed rapidly here and the situation could be better in the morning.
That evening on the bridge I met with Susan Adie and the Russian ice master, Valery Eremin, who monitored ice movement and weather conditions. We looked at charts and studied satellite information on the weather. Susan pointed out three possible sites on the continent of Antarctica where we could land. The northernmost one was called Water Boat Harbor, the middle site Neko Harbor, and the third choice Paradise Harbor. We wouldn’t know until we got there which of these sites would be possible.
When I returned to my cabin, I thought for a long time about what I was about to attempt.
I had mixed feelings about the test swim. In some ways, it had given me confidence; I now knew that I could swim for twenty-two minutes in thirty-three-degree water. But it had also made me feel uncertain. It had been the most difficult and probably the most dangerous swim I had ever done. Part of me wanted to be satisfied with it. Part of me didn’t want to attempt the mile. I was afraid. The water temperature on the big swim would be a degree colder. Thirty-two degrees. That was a magic number, the temperature at which freshwater froze. I wondered if in thirty-two-degree water the water in my cells would freeze, if my body’s tissues would become permanently damaged. I wondered if my mind would function better this time, if I would be able to be more aware of what was happening, or if it would be further dulled by the cold. Would my core temperature drop faster, more quickly than I could recognize? Would I be able to tell if I needed to get out? Did I really want to risk my life for this? Or did I want to risk failure?
The other part of me wanted to try, wanted to do what I had trained for, wanted to explore and reach beyond what I had done. That part of me was excited about venturing into the unknown. That part of me knew I would have felt a tremendous letdown if I didn’t get a chance to try. I wanted to do it now.
The next morning, on December 15, 2002, Susan called me up to the bridge. She pointed out Water Boat Point. The tiny gray beach between steep glaciers was completely blocked by icebergs and brash ice. There was no place to land.
We continued sailing south through the Gerlache Strait, past mountain-high glaciers and by ship-sized icebergs ranging in shades of blue from juniper berry to robin’s-egg to light powder blue. In the protection of the Antarctic Peninsula, the wind dropped off and the sea grew calmer. When we reached Neko Harbor, about an hour later, Susan called me up to the bridge. She was excited. The beach was free of icebergs and brash ice. A landing was possible.
Now I would have a chance to swim the first Antarctic mile. I was thrilled and scared, but I tried to remain calm; I knew that the weather could suddenly change and the swim would be off. I met with Barry Binder, who said, “I’ll get the crew into the Zodiacs and come and get you when everything’s set.”
I walked to the ship’s library, drank four eight-ounce cups of hot water, and ate two small croissants for breakfast—they were high in fat and carbohydrates, two sources of energy I would need for the swim. Then I started through the hallway to my cabin, where many of the Orlova’s passengers were waiting, eager to find out if I was going to swim. They wished me luck and said they would wait for me at the finish. I stopped by Dan’s cabin to ask him if he would jump into the water with me at the end of the swim. He was already in his dry suit, prepared to go. Everyone was doing what we had practiced. All I could do was to go back to my room and wait. Gabriella came in to take a core temperature; it was up to 100.4 degrees. Knowing I was venturing into unknown waters, I must have psyched myself up so much that I increased my body temperature. Gabriella left me alone while I put on my swimsuit and sweats. I rubbed sunscreen on my face, but not on my arms or legs; it could make my skin slippery, and if my crew needed me to get out of the water quickly, that would create a problem. The night before, three of the crew had spotted a pod of eight killer whales swimming into the Gerlache Strait. They hadn’t been moving fast. I hoped they were still north of us.
I stared out the window at the brown crescent-shaped beach. There were snow-covered hills directly above the beach, and massive glaciers on either side. I picked out landmarks, places I could aim for, so I’d know if I was on or off course.
Dr. Block caught me at the top of the stairs, just before we stepped out the door and onto the ramp, and asked if I would sit down on a step so he could trace two veins on my hands with a blue Magic Marker. It was just a precaution, he said, in case I needed emergency assistance; this way he would easily be able to find a vein to start an IV. I gave him my right hand and watched him draw the blue lines for the television camera. It gave me the creeps. Why did he have to do this now, right before I swam? Didn’t he realize this kind of stuff psychs people out? I know the swim is dangerous, but he could have done this hours ago, not just before I swam. Get over it, I told myself. Shake it off. Take a deep breath. Refocus. Take another breath. Good. Now think about the swim. I smiled. I’m so ready for this.
Walking to the door, I peeked out and felt a blast of icy wind hit my face from the northwest. It was blowing in off the glaciers in gusts to twenty-five knots, and the air temperature was thirty-two degrees. I felt the hair rising on my arms and my jaw tighten to suppress a shiver. I was much more nervous than I had been during my first swim. I had greater expectations of myself now. I wanted to swim the first Antarctic mile, and I knew I would be very disappointed if I did
n’t succeed.
I stared across the icy water at Neko Harbor’s beach and felt excitement building within me. Quickly before I could lose my chance, I pulled off my sweat suit and shoes and stuck them in a corner of the ship, climbed down the gangway, sat on the platform, and dangled my feet in the water. Surprisingly, it didn’t feel any colder than it had two days before. I didn’t realize then that the nerves on my skin’s surface had been damaged from the first swim. I didn’t know that the nerves that signaled danger weren’t firing. I wasn’t aware that my first line of defense was gone. I had no idea that prolonged exposure in thirty-two-degree water could cause permanent nerve and muscle damage. And I didn’t know then that when an untrained person is immersed in water colder than forty degrees, their nerves are cooled down so they can’t fire at the neuromuscular level. After only seven or eight minutes the person’s body seizes up and they can’t move. It was a good thing I didn’t know any of this. All I knew was that I was ready. I took a deep breath, leaned back, and threw myself forward into the thirty-two-degree water.
When I hit the water, I went all the way under. I hadn’t intended to do that; I hadn’t wanted to immerse my head, which could over-stimulate my vagus nerve and cause my heart to stop beating. Dog-paddling as quickly as I could, I popped up in the water, gasping for air. I couldn’t catch my breath. I was swimming with my head up, hyperventilating. I kept spinning my arms, trying to get warm, but I couldn’t get enough air. I felt like I had a corset tightening around my chest. I told myself to relax, take a deep breath, but I couldn’t slow my breath. And I couldn’t get enough air in. I tried again. My body wanted air, and it wanted it now. I had to override that reaction of hyperventilating. I had to concentrate on my breath, to press my chest out against the cold water and draw the icy air into my lungs.
